


Crimson

by glyphsbowtie



Series: Crimson [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-16 05:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11246943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glyphsbowtie/pseuds/glyphsbowtie
Summary: When Jesse McCree’s failing newspaper runs a ridiculous story about Lord Hanzo Shimada being a vampire, McCree expects Shimada to be angry. He doesn’t expect to find out the bloody truth about Shimada, or to fall under his spell.





	Crimson

“We absolutely can't print this,” Jesse McCree says, flapping the paper above his head and glowering at his editorial team around the table. It is late, and the snow on the windows lends the room a shadowed quality. McCree can't afford any more coal for the fire, so most of the congregation are wrapped up in scarves, including Jesse himself.

 

“We don't have anything else to print,” Lena responds with a shrug. Her gaze doesn't falter when McCree turns his dark glare upon her and he curses himself again for being the only newspaper editor in town who is progressive enough to hire women.

 

“God damn it,” McCree spits, and if the blasphemy offends anyone around the table, they don't show it. “Jamison,  _ seriously, _ ” he continues, repeating words he has used a dozen times in the past five minutes.

 

“Look, I've got evidence,” Jamison Fawkes retorts. There is soot on his nose. “Lady Amelia Richards disappeared after being seen with him at the dance last month, didn't she?”

 

“That's hardly evidence of  _ this. _ ”

 

“The Shimada maid was spotted at the market with a bite mark on her throat.”

 

“It's more likely Lord Shimada  _ seduced _ her than attempted to drink her blood, Jamison.” McCree pinches the bridge of his nose. He is getting a headache.

 

“Don't print it then.” Jamison folds his arms. “Print something else.”

 

“We don't have anything else,” Lena says glumly.

 

McCree looks at the paper in his hand _ : Lord Hanzo Shimada: Creature of the Night?  _ He laughs humorlessly. “Print it. I'll no doubt get called out for this.”

 

“Or bitten,” Lena replies with a grin.

 

*

 

Jesse McCree almost forgets the ridiculous story the next day. He spends the day in his office, scribbling furiously, trying to find a creative way to pay the rent and pay all of his staff this month. His head is throbbing again but he does manage a pleased grin when Lena sticks her head in to tell him that they've sold more copies today than any other issue that month.

 

By the time he looks up from his numbers, it is dark outside. He can't hear any sounds from the other rooms in the King’s Row Gazette offices. The only light in the room comes from the small fire in his grate. He scratches at the stubble on his chin. It is unfashionable, but McCree is too lazy to shave it every day. He can't afford to hire a valet to do it for him. It isn't as though he is looking for a wife.

 

There is a distant knock at the front entrance to the offices. McCree reaches into his creased waistcoat pocket for his pocket watch and frowns; it is almost nine.

 

He leaves his own office into the far colder main room and looks down the hallway to the door. The whole place is dark, cast in shadows.

 

“We're closed!” he shouts.

 

Another insistent knock. McCree knows who it is. It hits him with a flash of realisation. Hanzo Shimada.

 

Of course he came after dark.

 

“Come back tomorrow morning!” McCree shouts.

 

There is silence. McCree thinks for a moment that Shimada has left. Then there is a voice which is somehow both quiet and loud. It is chilling. “If you do not open this door, I swear I will kick it open.”

 

McCree weighs up his options. He cannot afford to replace the door, so having it kicked down is not brilliant. There is a pistol nestled in his top drawer, but he doesn't want to go back for it in case Shimada gets bored of waiting and kicks the door open regardless. Finally, he decides that a titled nobleman is hardly likely to be able to take him in a fair fight, and heads towards the door boldly.

 

He flings it open and glares out with what he hopes is an imposing grace. It is freezing out here, the street cloaked in white, in stark contrast to the black-clad man standing in his doorway.

 

He has seen Hanzo Shimada before, of course. They hardly move in similar circles, but London is only so big, and McCree's livelihood depends on reporting the activities of these boring people. He has never stood this close to Lord Shimada before, though. The man has extraordinarily dark eyes and surprisingly long eyelashes, currently fringed with snowflakes.

 

Shimada frowns at him. “Aren't you going to invite me in, Mr McCree? It is somewhat cold out here.”

 

McCree blinks. Something hot and liquid is uncurling within his stomach, and he realises with a horrible jolt that it is desire. He is attracted to this pompous, arrogant man who is no doubt here to invite him to a sunrise duel. Wordlessly, he steps aside and waves his long arm casually, gesturing to Shimada that he is welcome. The aristocrat enters and a wave of his fragrance washes over McCree. It is spicy and woody, and absolutely divine. McCree wonders what his own odour is currently like and imagines that 'divine’ is quite far from being an appropriate adjective.

 

“I imagine you know why I'm here,” Shimada says crisply, as McCree closes the door and casts the hallway into shadow. In the darkness, Shimada's eyes flash dangerously.

 

“Enlighten me,” McCree drawls, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall. He doesn't understand his own desire to make this as difficult as possible, but he can't help himself.

 

“I have come to bite your throat,” Shimada replies drily. There is a flash of white as he smiles wickedly, and McCree is startled by this display of humour, but the words have gone straight to his groin and he has to fight to maintain his composure.

 

“The vampire article,” he says, and his voice is a little strained. “If it makes you feel better, I thought it was crazy, too.”

 

“Yet you ran it anyway. How remarkably unscrupulous.”

 

McCree decides that honesty may be his best chance at avoiding a duel with this handsome and surprisingly funny man. “We didn't have anything to run. I'm sure it won't come as a surprise since it's after nine and the editor is still working in a freezing, dark office, but we really can't afford to be overly fussy. We need to sell papers.”

 

Shimada pauses. In the dark, McCree can't read his facial expression, but he can hear the steady breaths the nobleman takes. Finally, Shimada offers his hand. “I have been quite rude. My apologies. My name is Lord Hanzo Shimada. I do not believe we have any been formally introduced.”

 

McCree frowns in confusion at the direction the conversation has turned, but he reaches out for Shimada's gloved hand and takes it. It is large and feels surprisingly strong. “Jesse McCree, editor.”

 

Shimada does not release his fingers. His eyes bore into McCree's. “I have seen you several times at events.”

 

“I am surprised you would remember me,” McCree says. His voice trembles a little. He is incredibly aware of the gloved hand wrapped around his.

 

“You are an unusual man, McCree. You are memorable.” The words are heavy, murmured in a velvet soft voice.

 

McCree is blushing. He is glad they are standing in the dark. “That's very kind of you. You're being very polite for someone who has presumably come here to demand satisfaction.”

 

“Satisfaction,” Shimada repeats. “What did you have in mind?”

 

Is Lord Shimada trying to seduce him? Such things are taboo, and therefore not usually brought up with people one doesn't know very well. McCree's preference is for his own gender, yes, but what is making Shimada so damn sure of this fact? McCree frowns in the darkness and wonders if this is some trick. He withdraws his fingers from Shimada's. “A duel of some sort.”

 

Shimada laughs. “That will hardly be necessary, McCree. I merely need you to publish an apology to me in the next edition.”

 

“Impossible,” McCree replies. “The paper would lose all credibility. I cannot risk that. People are depending on me for their jobs.” He rubs at his stubble. “I'm sorry, for what it's worth. But surely you can see the absurdity of caring about it? Who in their right mind believes that sort of thing?”

 

“I do,” Shimada replies solemnly.

 

McCree laughs nervously. “You're saying you  _ are _ a vampire?”

 

“No. But just because I am not doesn't mean that others are not.” Shimada takes a step towards him. “You will cause a panic. Perhaps push them to strike harder.”

 

This conversation has taken a turn for the utterly bizarre. “Them?” McCree repeats.

 

“The vampires, McCree.” There is something solemn and serious about Shimada that makes McCree think he genuinely believes this insanity. It is a shame, McCree thinks, that someone as attractive as Shimada is utterly delusional.

 

This would make a brilliant story to run, if only McCree didn't feel so sorry for him.

 

“The vampires,” McCree sighs.

 

“You do not believe me. That is understandable. I did not believe it at first myself.” Shimada reaches out for his hand again. “Do you have a light somewhere?”

 

Without waiting for a response, he pulls Jesse by the hand back towards the main room and the into the editor's office, the only place where a fire still burns. It is cool and dim now, but in the gentle glow, McCree sees that Shimada looks like he hasn't slept in about a month. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes. Releasing McCree, Shimada unfastens the ornate silver clasps of his heavy cloak and removes it with a flourish. Beneath it, he wears an expensive-looking black ensemble and, more startlingly, a large gun and a long, lethally sharp silver stake.

 

McCree is alone with a madman. He wonders if he can dart to the desk and grab his pistol.

 

Shimada raises his dark eyebrows as though reading his thoughts. Peeling off his gloves, he reaches for the high, stiff black collar he waves and pulls it down. There, unmistakably, is a pink scar left by two large puncture wounds. Beside it, there is another, fainter scar in the same shape.

 

McCree swallows. He tries to think of another explanation, a sane one.

 

“Who did this to you?” he asks. He reaches out without asking permission and trails his fingers across the scars, as if verifying their existence.

 

Shimada hesitates. “Irrelevant,” he says finally. He reaches up and grabs McCree's hand. It is still ghosting over the scars. The searing sensation of skin against skin bonds the two men, and they look into each other's eyes. McCree swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He isn't convinced that Shimada is insane anymore. The alternative is horrifying.

 

“If you have been bitten,” he says slowly, remembering vampire lore from his childhood, “what does that make you? A vampire, surely?”

 

“The transformation involves drinking the vampire's blood. I have no desire to become a vampire, so I have never taken the blood.”

 

“Wait.” McCree's brain is working quickly. “You had a choice? Did you… did you volunteer to let a vampire drink you?” The words are thick and unfamilar in McCree's mouth, and the absurdity makes his lips twitch.

 

Shimada's dark eyes flutter closed for a moment. “I did volunteer.”

 

“Why the hell would you?”

 

Shimada looks at him again. His eyes are bright. “My younger brother. He was bitten while travelling three years ago. He fights against his true nature.”

 

“That's… I'm sorry.” McCree is still waiting for Shimada to laugh, to mock him for even beginning to believe this insanity. Those marks, though…

 

“So now you know.” Shimada squeezes McCree's hand. “I am sorry, but you did rather bring this down upon yourself.”

 

“There are vampires in London?”

 

“Dozens, at least.”

 

“Do you monitor them?” McCree asks. “Are you trying to cure your brother?”

 

Shimada laughs without humour. “I am trying to avenge Genji. There is no cure. I do not monitor them, Jesse. I hunt them.”

 

McCree's mouth falls open. “An unusual hobby for a nobleman,” he manages weakly.

 

“It is not the path I would have chosen for myself. However, it is the path which was chosen for me.” Shimada smiles grimly. “I am very good at what I do. However, too much vampire hysteria around London will encourage them to be reckless. It puts me in danger.”

 

Those words are enough. “I'll run the apology,” McCree says.

 

Shimada stands on his tiptoes and presses his mouth against McCree's, allowing his lips to brush against the startled editor’s. It is over as soon as it begins, and McCree stares at Shimada with wide eyes. His heart is thundering in his chest.

 

“I have work to do, I am afraid,” Shimada says gently. “It is dangerous for us both if I linger here too long.”

 

McCree is certain this is true. He stares as his enigmatic guest puts his cloak back on and slides his gloves on briskly.

 

“See me out?” Shimada asks.

 

McCree follows him to the front door. Shimada opens it to the snow and sighs. McCree wants to grab his arm and drag him back inside. Shimada may very well be the craziest man he has ever met, and if he isn't then he's the bravest.

 

“Can I see you again?” he asks, and blushes as soon as the words are out. Hanzo Shimada is a nobleman. He is hardly going to be interested in more than a brief flirtation with the scruffy editor of a failing newspaper.

 

Shimada looks back at him and grins. “Count on it, Jesse McCree.”


End file.
